Ahead, in the distance, stood the Brooklyn Bridge. This was the best spot in Brooklyn’s Red Hook section for seeing the bridge. I’d come to this corner and studied the bridge a million times. And on every one of those times, I was taken with what I’d come to call Brooklyn Belle.
I never got tired of looking out at its steel girders and iron cables—at its beautiful crisscross rafters that had started out in somebody’s imagination, had been put to paper, formalized in an engineer’s plans, then woven together, bolt by bolt. Now Belle was a powerful giant who carried all kinds of people to all kinds of places, day after day. At night Belle was dressed in tiny lights that spanned her limbs. On a cloudless night like this one, she was a sight like no other sight in the whole city. Jeweled in light. Beautiful.
My fingers had tensed into fists at my sides, fists full of strength and eagerness. I uncurled my knuckles and shook them free of their strain. Then I reached into my jacket pocket—where my consent form for the bridge project had been neatly folded for days—and pulled out my pencil. Slowly, I flipped through the pages of my sketchbook. I’d drawn Belle in the high-noon light, at sunset, on snowy days, and on foggy twilight mornings. My favorite sketches were those of Belle during rush hour, when cars and taxis danced like trinkets along her outstretched beams.
Tonight I’d draw Belle with her lighted cape. I sketched slowly at first, then faster, my pencil working with the speed of my excitement—the thrill that worked me over every time I sketched that bridge. I was proud of my drawings (I liked to think of them as portraits), but with each page they showed a sad truth about Belle: She needed repair. She was some forty years older than Mama Lil. And as lovely as she was, she had some serious rough spots—corroded cables, rust, chipped paint, and plain old grit that had built up over the decades. That bridge renovation project needed me; and I needed it, in more ways than I could count.
Bridge. This was the best spot in Brooklyn’s
Red Hook section for seeing the bridge. I’d
come to this corner and studied the bridge
a million times. And on every one of those
times, I was taken with what I’d come to call
Brooklyn Belle.
I never got tired of looking out at its
steel girders and iron cables—at its beautiful
crisscross rafters that had started out in
somebody’s imagination, had been put to
paper, formalized in an engineer’s plans, then
woven together, bolt by bolt. Now Belle was a
powerful giant who carried all kinds of people
to all kinds of places, day after day.
At night Belle was dressed in tiny lights
that spanned her limbs. On a cloudless night
like this one, she was a sight like no other sight
in the whole city. Jeweled in light. Beautiful.
My fingers had tensed into fists at my
sides, fists full of strength and eagerness. I
uncurled my knuckles and shook them free
of their strain. Then I reached into my jacket
pocket—where my consent form for the bridge
project had been neatly folded for days—and
pulled out my pencil. Slowly, I flipped through
the pages of my sketchbook. I’d drawn Belle in
the high-noon light, at sunset, on snowy days,
and on foggy twilight mornings. My favorite
sketches were those of Belle during rush hour,
when cars and taxis danced like trinkets along
her outstretched beams.
Tonight I’d draw Belle with her lighted
cape. I sketched slowly at first, then faster,
my pencil working with the speed of my
excitement—the thrill that worked me over
every time I sketched that bridge.
I was proud of my drawings (I liked to
think of them as portraits), but with each
page they showed a sad truth about Belle: She
needed repair. She was some forty years older
than Mama Lil. And as lovely as she was, she
had some serious rough spots—corroded
cables, rust, chipped paint, and plain old grit
that had built up over the decades. That bridge
renovation project needed me; and I needed it,
in more ways than I could count.